Hi. I’m Beege. I’ve just wandered over from Blogspot…I like it here, better–nicer templates, for starters.

I’m the insanely proud mother of a tiny girl who is about to turn two-and-a-half. She is my Mini-Me. Except where she’s her father’s Mini-Him. She’s a good blend of both of us, I think.

I spend quite a lot of time reading books to her. Or rather, I spend quite a lot of time reading a few select books to her. Right now her favorites are anything that causes me to cast my face up to the heavens and sob, “No. Can’t we read something else? Please?! We read that all the ti-i-i-i-i-ime! To which my angelic fiend will plant her heels, put her hands on her hips and say, “We don’t listen to whining in this house. Read the book.”  It’s hell having your words parroted back to you, people. Hell, I say.

She’s also wicked smart. Talks like a four year old. They want to move her up a year in preschool because she’s so advanced. I have deeply mixed feelings on this. I’m sure I’ll share more in the coming days as I write through what exactly I think about that idea. As it is, my Beloved M is forbidden to mention anything of this to his mother. If she knew about it, all her wacky-ass over-acheiving insanity that made M’s growing up a living hell would be unleashed on Sweetie Pea. I can’t protect my baby from much, but I can protect her from that.

And, I suppose, if the only thing I protect her from in her life is the insanity of her relatives I won’t be doing half bad!